


in darkness she is all I see

by FakePlastikTrees



Category: The Mindy Project
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1676420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FakePlastikTrees/pseuds/FakePlastikTrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny Castellano doesn’t love many things, and he loves very few people. But he loves Sundays and he loves Mindy Lahiri.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in darkness she is all I see

**Author's Note:**

> Not exactly sure what the point of this is. Just felt like it.

 

She never wakes up alone.

 

He sometimes lies awake in bed longer than he has to. His record so far is two hours. He won’t dare allow her to wake up without him. Because she clings to him as morning nears, damn near wraps herself around him. It isn’t all night, let’s be real here. No couple in the history of coupledom has ever snuggled through the night.

 

They start out close, sometimes, she drapes herself over him as they watch Stephen Colbert late at night and eventually she drifts off before the show is even over. Other times, he spoons her, with an arm hooked possessively over her waist. He can admit it, it’s possessive, the way he feels about her. It’s intense.

 

At any rate, his favorite is right after sex. Most of the time, they wear each other out so fatally that they fall asleep wherever they land, but always tangled up in each other.

 

Later through the night, they gradually untangle, each seeking their own space as they drift deeper and deeper into slumber. It’s a free for all there. She sometimes drools a little on the pillow and he often drops an arm over the edge of the bed, not moving until his arm is either freezing or numb, or both.

 

But somewhere, shortly before dawn, they scoot in closer and closer and most mornings now he wakes up with Mindy in his arms, sometimes tucked into his side with her face hidden in his armpit, sometimes she hooks her leg around and arm over him, holding him to her like a teddy bear. He prefers the last one.

 

Because he’ll wake up, long before she does, and her hair is fanned out all over his face. It tickles him and he brushes it aside, spitting some of it out of his mouth, but then he holds her, watches her sleep, and he made peace with the fact that he likes being awake while she is asleep. It isn’t a fetish thing or a weird, creeper thing. He just—likes knowing he can provide a safe haven for her to sleep so peacefully. And he has to admit that spending a few selfish moments (hours if he’s being honest) of a non speaking Mindy is one of his favorite things. Not that he doesn’t love her sporadic outbursts of endless rambling, but it’s just nice.

 

Her breathing is easy against his side or his chest or his armpit, until she begins to stir somewhere around 8:30, or 9 on Sundays.

 

Sundays are Danny’s favorite. She sleeps longer and when the time comes that she should wake, it starts with her feet. She rubs them together a few times, sighs as the residual of sleep rises off her body. Then, her head lulls gently this way and that, she sighs a few more times, sometimes releases a little moan—the moan means she slept well.

 

“Mmm—my god, I had a dream about pancakes.”

 

She literally wakes up talking.

 

God, he must be crazy to love someone who talks this much.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She won’t let him sleep once she’s ready to get up. Because once she’s up and her teeth are clean and her face has been splashed with cool water, it’s time for breakfast. That’s a demand, not a request.

 

She wears his blue flannel. It’s now his favorite because it’s her favorite and she wears it to sleep nearly every night. It smells like her all the time, so it’s now his favorite.

 

Plus, she looks good in blue.

 

She sits on the kitchen counter, tonguing a spoonful of peanut butter, swinging her legs back and forth as she watches him flip a pancake on the skillet.

 

Her skin is glowing in the mornings. Morning light is her light. He doesn’t think she’s fully aware of how good she looks in the mornings.

 

He watches her, listens to her go on and on about wanting to take up yoga. He knows and she knows that that she’ll never take up yoga but he nods and responds in all the right pauses and disagrees with almost everything, as she expects.

 

He says something that makes her laugh and he manages to flip the stove off as she grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him to her.

 

She sighs against his lips when they kiss and when his tongue touches her, he tastes the peanut butter and just a hint of batter he forbid her to eat.

 

“You taste really good,” he tells her, kissing along her jawline. He slides his palms up her bare thighs. They are as soft as they look.

 

“Do I?” She asks huskily, moaning favorably when he tastes the side of her neck and nips her earlobe. “What do I taste like?”

 

He knows she isn’t talking about her mouth anymore.

 

He smiles, tells her to hold on before he pulls her closer to the edge of the counter, and then makes her come twice on the kitchen counter. He isn’t sure what he likes more, the sight of her almost falling off the counter with the second orgasm she isn’t anticipating, or that of her on her knees, with her lips wrapped around him minutes later.

 

 

 

 

 

“Do you think I should dye my hair blonde?”

 

She asks him these questions like it’s serious and like she’ll get a serious answer.

 

“No.” He says quickly.

 

It’s almost noon and they’re back in bed. He’s sitting with his back against the headboard with The New York Times open on his lap and she’s on her back with her head hanging off the foot of the bed and a People magazine open at eye level.

 

He hates it when she does that.

 

“Can you please use the bed like a normal person?” He grumpily asks, nudging her ankle.

 

“Why? I’m comfortable this way.”

 

“The blood is rushing to your brain as we speak, Lahiri, get up here, now!”

 

He really does worry about her brain sometimes.

 

“I have plenty of brains, thank you very much—“ she playfully kicks his side, really digging her big toe into his ribs. “—they can take it.”

 

He grabs both of her legs and pulls her onto the bed. She squeals, but doesn’t protest, instead, she laughs.

 

Any ounce of annoyance he might have felt a second ago is gone with the sound of that silly, girlish laugh and he pulls her further until he can shift enough to crawl between her legs and loom over her, allowing her to pull most of his weight onto her by wrapping her legs around him.

 

He kisses her once, and his glasses bump into hers. After securing both pairs safely out of the way, he tries it again.

 

He is successful.

 

She’s so warm. No matter how long she’s been prancing around his apartment in nothing but his blue flannel shirt, she’s always warm. She’s really got absolutely nothing underneath, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to wait long to pepper kisses along the expanse of her belly. He loves doing this in the daytime. When he can see all of her and they seem to have all the time in the world.

 

She’s got a crescent moon shaped freckle low on her hip and when he licks and kisses it, she squirms under him.

 

Her skin smells like coconut.

 

He could worship this woman for days. And he’s willing to take that challenge if she’s up for it.

 

“Mmm—Danny—“

 

Okay, maybe the way she moans his name is his favorite. Just the sound of it, all breathy like she can’t help it, makes him painfully hard.

 

She likes to comb her fingers through his head when he goes down on her, and when she’s feeling dirty, she likes to grab a fistful of it and pull.

 

As soon as he feels the first tug now, he grabs both her thighs and pulls her closer still with a growl. He spreads her legs wide and grazes her labia with his teeth, just a little bit, enough to draw out that shiver that makes her back arch.

 

He licks her with the flat of his tongue, runs the tip of it over the base of her clit, not giving her any time to get used to it before he slips two fingers inside her and she gasps.

 

“Fuck—Danny…” It starts off as a shout, but dies out in drawn out hiss when she lifts her head off the mattress to watch him tongue her cunt.

 

He glances up at her and winks. He catches just a glimpse of her eyes rolling to the back of her head before she flops back down and moans his name.

 

He’s pretty proud of himself for that one.

 

“Danny, hold on—I can’t—“

 

It’s coming, he can feel her milking his fingers, growing impossibly wetter and his cock is straining against his boxers, but he can wait. She’s really pulling at his hair now, thrusting her hips against his mouth in an uneven rhythm. She comes without a sound this time, her hips jerking involuntarily against his tongue, the evidence of her orgasm dripping along his digits an onto his palm as tiny, incoherent sounds seem to seep out from the back of her throat.

 

She grunts when he pulls his fingers smoothly out of her and moans when he drops one final kiss over her slit before kissing his way back up her torso.

 

He loves that she doesn’t mind kissing him after he’s tasted all of her. He thinks she might even get off on it, judging by the way she hums and exhales as they kiss.

 

He loves this, loves being cradled between her legs, loves the way she’s so eager to push his underwear off, struggling with it but refusing to stop kissing him.

 

She loves kissing.

 

He’s never been with anyone who loves kissing more than Mindy does. She’s committed to kissing, she’s got a technique, it starts low and sensuous, then, it gets deep and spine tingling—right now, it’s downright pornographic.

 

She takes hold of him, stroking the length of him and thumbing the tip, rubbing his precum down to the shaft.

 

He groans, brutally grips the bedspread as it stretches out under her head and tears his lips from hers, glaring down through ragged breathing while she smiles up at him and nibbles her bottom lip.

 

“Stop that!” He orders, to which she responds with a firm stroke and a gentle squeeze as she tilts her chin upward and flicks his chin with the tip of her tongue.

 

“Fuck me,” she says, soft and breathless, her hips reaching for him as she strokes him slowly.

 

He loves the way she gasps when he slips inside her, painstakingly slow, and firm. She cradles his face with one hand while the other slaps down against the comforter and she pulls at it as her chest heaves.

 

There’s no real purpose or technique in the way they plainly and simply _fuck_ each other for the sake of getting off—that’s not to say there is no meaning in fucking, he could write a sonnet about how it feels when slams into her and she arches back, the way it feels to slip inside her when she’s so unbelievably wet, and the way she squeezes him, holds him to her with her entire body.

 

She comes apart in his arms, with his name on her lips and he reciprocates, filling the room with sounds they aren’t even aware they make.

 

He collapses at her side, sweatier than he’d like to admit, too spent to do anything except stare at her.

 

He loves the way she kisses his shoulder and rakes her nails along his scalp as she runs her fingers through her hair. She brings him down from this high she’s put him on, gently, cushioning so there won’t ever be any room for doubt or fear as before.

 

He doesn’t love very much that she makes him get up and cook for her because she didn’t really get to eat breakfast anyway. But, after she eats, and after they share a shower, she squeezes behind him on the couch, wraps her legs around his middle and kisses his ear before she begins to rub his neck and shoulders. Without him even asking. Sometimes, she joins him for evening mass but it's okay when she doesn't. Because he'll come home to pizza and beer and that's just perfect. 

 

Danny Castellano doesn’t love many things, and he loves very few people. But he loves Sundays and he loves Mindy Lahiri.


End file.
